The Case of the Golden Key

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  For Peter and Ella, my new friends.

  Chapter

  1

  Reginald Pinkerton Armitage III

  Sunday morning I was riding uphill, on my way to meet a new client. His house was on the edge of town. But it might as well have been the edge of the world. A neighborhood of long driveways and fancy cars. The houses came in three sizes: big, bigger, and just plain ridiculous.

  I arrived at 86 Baker Street, snapped down the kickstand, and took a look around. There was a lot of around to look at. The front lawn was so perfect it could have been the infield grass at Yankee Stadium. The bushes looked like they’d been trimmed with a pair of small scissors and a tweezer. The house itself was a little bigger than just plain ridiculous.

  I glanced down at my faded jeans and beat-up sneakers. I tucked in my shirt. Pulled down my hat. And did three quick push-ups on the doorbell.

  Gong-gong-gong, it chimed.

  The thick door opened without a sound.

  That was the first time I laid eyes on Reginald Pinkerton Armitage III. He was shorter than me, though he stood as straight as a soldier. Reginald was dressed in crisp khakis and a sweater vest over a button-down shirt. He wore a tidy bow tie and his slick black hair was held in place by gooey gel. With his right pinkie, Reginald pushed a pair of round eyeglasses from the tip of his nose closer to his face.

  He eyed me with all the warmth of a sick goldfish. “And you might be…?”

  “I might be Jigsaw Jones,” I answered. “At least that’s the name on the card.”

  I handed him my business card.

  He glanced at the card, looked me over, and stepped aside. “Do come in.”

  So I did.

  With a voice as formal as a tuxedo, he asked, “May I take your hat?”

  “Take it where?”

  That made him blink. “Off your head, naturally.”

  “The hat goes where I go,” I replied. “It’s a package deal.”

  He frowned. “Your shoes are filthy. Place them on the mat by the door.”

  I didn’t make a move. Instead, we stood staring at each other like two cowboys in a showdown. Meanwhile, silence rolled by like a tumbleweed.

  “I meant to say, would you place your shoes on the mat … please?” Reginald blurted.

  “Say ‘pretty please’ and put a cherry on top, and I’ll think about it,” I replied.

  Chapter

  2

  Truce

  Reginald’s face flushed a deep red. “I don’t care for your tone,” he scolded.

  I replied with a long, slow yawn. Ho-hum.

  Reginald brushed past me, yanked open the door, and scowled. “Please leave now,” he demanded.

  “Loosen up, Reggie,” I replied. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

  “That’s Reginald,” he snapped. “And I don’t care for your lack of manners.”

  “My manners?” I gasped. “Tell you what, let’s start over. Only this time, maybe you try to work up a smile. You called me, remember?”

  Reginald’s eyes widened in shock. He wasn’t used to getting his toes stepped on. He stammered, “I … I daresay … yes, perhaps … quite right, quite right.”

  He pulled off his glasses, fumbled with them for a few seconds, then placed them back on his nose. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off to a bad start.” He thrust out a hand. “My name is Reginald Pinkerton Armitage the Third. But if you must, you may call me … Reggie.”

  A weak smile drifted across his face.

  I took his hand and shook it. “Jones,” I said. “Jigsaw Jones. Private eye.”

  Reginald gestured down the long hallway. “Shall we … er…” He glanced once again at my feet. “I’m awfully sorry, but it’s a house rule.”

  Well, my sneakers were muddy. Stepping on the heel, I slipped out of one sneaker, then the other. I was glad to see my socks matched. Too bad my right big toe poked through like a beached white whale.

  Again, Reginald’s lips headed south in a frown.

  “Would you care for a pair of slippers?” he offered.

  “No thanks,” I replied. “Never on weekends.”

  “I see you’re a wiseguy,” he observed.

  “Only when I need to be,” I replied. “Look, Reginald Pinkerton Armitage the Third. You told me on the phone that it was an emergency. I dropped everything, hopped on my bike, and rode all the way out here. Up three big hills, against the wind.” I paused, a little weary. “You got any grape juice?”

  “Grape juice?”

  “How about just a few grapes?” I suggested. “I’ll stomp on ’em myself.”

  This time, Reginald smiled. A real, honest-to-goodness smile. “All right, then. I’ll instruct Madge to prepare refreshments. You’re funny, Jones. I am beginning to like you.”

  “I’m beginning to like myself, too,” I mumbled. “Lead the way, Reginald. I’ll tag along behind.”

  Reginald started down the hallway. “We’ll sit in the library,” he informed me. “We can talk about the case in private there.”

  Reginald brought me to a large paneled room, then left to “inquire” about refreshments. It was the kind of room you see in old black-and-white movies—before you switch the channel. Tall bookcases rose to the ceiling. A large desk filled one corner of the room. A few high-backed armchairs were placed here, there, and everywhere. Fancy reading lamps sat beside each one. A dusty gray cat lay snoozing on the rug, warmed by slanting rays of sunlight. A lazy ceiling fan pushed the air around.

  Reginald returned, carrying a silver tray. “Milk and cucumber sandwiches,” he announced.

  “Oh joy,” I grumbled.

  Reginald sat across from me. “I’d like to begin by asking you a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  He glanced at my business card. “Where is your partner, Mila Yeh?”

  “She’s tickling the ivories,” I answered.

  Reginald raised an eyebrow.

  “A piano lesson,” I explained. “I’ll give her the facts later.”

  “It’s just you and me, then,” Reginald replied. “How splendid.”

  “Yeah, ain’t it nice,” I cooed. I eyed the tray of cucumber sandwiches and decided against it.

  It wasn’t a hard call to make.

  I was hungry. But I wasn’t that hungry.

  Chapter

  3

  The Golden Key

  I spent the next five minutes telling Reginald about detective work.

  “Can you be trusted to keep a secret?” he asked me.

  “Trusted? That’s up to you,” I said. “But since you’re asking, yes. I can be trusted.”

  Reggie crossed the room to the desk. The dusty cat watched him with mild interest, one eye open. Reginald opened a drawer and lifted out a small box. He handed it to me. I opened it. There was a sheet of paper on top with a neatly written list of birthdays.

 
I placed the sheet on the end table beside me. Inside the box, there was a bundle of red satin cloth.

  “Look inside,” Reginald instructed.

  I unwrapped the cloth. It contained an old-fashioned skeleton key. Though not especially large, it was unusually heavy. I wondered if it was solid gold.

  “What does it open?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’d like you to find out,” Reginald said. “And I’m prepared to pay for it.”

  “I get a dollar a day, plus expenses.”

  “Money is not a problem,” he promised.

  “Speak for yourself,” I countered.

  Reginald pulled a money clip from his shirt pocket. It was stuffed with crisp green bills. He peeled off a ten spot and handed it to me. “Alexander Hamilton,” I noted. “An all-around swell guy.”

  I stuffed the ten-dollar bill into my pocket. Taking out a black marker, I scribbled in my detective journal:

  “Where did you find the box?” I asked.

  Reginald reached for a cucumber sandwich. He ate slowly with his pinkie extended, careful not to drop crumbs.

  “This old house used to be owned by my great-uncle, Simon Rathgate, Esquire,” he said. “Great-uncle Rathgate made his fortune in stocks and bonds. Millions upon millions of dollars. He passed away two years ago. The house has been empty ever since.”

  “Until you moved in,” I noted.

  “Yes, this past summer.” Reginald nodded. “His things were left here—the furniture, the paintings, and so on. The house, too, is quite interesting. Though I’ve lived in better, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I echoed.

  “Father is an international banker. We move around a lot. Switzerland, London, San Francisco, that kind of thing. Now we’re here, of all places.”

  “You don’t like it here?” I asked.

  Reginald’s lips tightened. “No, not much. I’m schooled at home by tutors, and I don’t have many friends.” He gave a forced laugh. “The truth is, Jones, I don’t have any friends. Just my sister, Hildegard.”

  “Well, she’s your friend, isn’t she?” I said.

  “Sisters don’t count,” Reginald stated. He fell silent, chewing sadly on a sorry excuse for a sandwich.

  “What about the box?” I prodded.

  “This old house, you see, has many strange features. False doors, secret rooms, that sort of thing. Hildegard and I found the box while we were searching through Great-uncle Rathgate’s old bedroom. The box was tucked far back on a top shelf. It’s only by pure luck that we found it.”

  “You tried the key in all the obvious places,” I said.

  “Oh yes. I’ve looked all over the house. It doesn’t fit anything.”

  I weighed the key in my hand. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I cautioned him. “The world is full of lost keys without locks.”

  Reginald leaned forward, suddenly earnest. “I’m sure that key opens something special. Why else would it have been tucked away in a box? And,” he added, “I can already tell that you’re the one who’ll help me find the treasure.”

  “Treasure?”

  “I mean, um, find the solution. I have no idea what the key opens, naturally,” Reginald declared.

  “Naturally,” I repeated. I’d heard enough. I wrapped the key in the cloth and placed it back in the box. I paused, studying the list. “That’s odd,” I murmured.

  “Odd?” Reginald asked.

  “It’s a list of birthdays,” I said.

  “Yes, it seems so.”

  I handed it to Reginald. “Look at Topper’s birthday. November thirty-first.”

  Reginald shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I fail to understand.”

  “There is no November thirty-first,” I said. “Don’t you remember the poem? Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.”

  “I see,” Reginald answered. “But what does it mean?”

  “It means that this may not be a list of birthdays after all,” I said. “It’s probably a secret code.”

  Chapter

  4

  The Hat Project

  I didn’t get to tell Mila about the case until Monday morning. We met at the bus stop.

  “Who is this kid anyway?” Mila asked. “Reginald Pinkthumb … Arm-a-whoosie?”

  “Reginald Pinkerton Armitage the Third,” I corrected. “I don’t know much about him. He’s new in town. He told me he doesn’t have any friends. To be honest, I could see why.”

  “You didn’t like him?” Mila asked.

  “I liked him, I guess,” I said with a shrug. “It’s hard to explain. He was more like a grown-up than a kid.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Mila stated. “Did you bring the key with you?”

  “Nope, it’s safe at home,” I explained. “I brought the birthday list, though. I think it’s written in code, but I’m not getting anywhere with it.”

  Mila folded the list neatly, then zipped it in her backpack. “Don’t worry, Jigsaw. We’ll put our heads together at lunch.”

  Monday was a big day in room 201. After the usual morning routine, Ms. Gleason made an announcement. “This week, all of grade two will be working on the Hat Project.” She gave Athena Lorenzo a stack of papers to hand out. “Please take these papers home to your parents.”

  She continued, “I’ll assign a different hat to each of you. You’ll do research at the library and at home—use dictionaries, nonfiction books, and the Internet. Then you’ll make a poster with a drawing of your hat, including interesting facts.”

  “Interesting facts … about a hat?” Ralphie Jordan wondered.

  Ms. Gleason smiled. “These hats are from all over the world, Ralphie. They are worn by people from different cultures and for very different reasons. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the research once you get into it.”

  Then came the moment of truth. As we all sat, excited and nervous, Ms. Gleason walked around the room. She placed a slip of paper on each of our desks.

  “All right!” Bigs Maloney hooted. “I’ve got the bearskin hat!”

  “What does a bearskin hat look like?” Danika Starling asked.

  Bigs shrugged. “Beats me, but it sounds cool.”

  Joey Pignattano got the stovepipe hat. Lucy Hiller got the chullo, and Helen Zuckerman got the deerstalker.

  Please, I thought, please let me get the baseball cap.

  Kim Lewis got the slouch hat, Geetha Nair got the beret, and Bobby Solofsky got the gaucho hat, which was fine by me.

  Then it was Mila’s turn. “The dunce cap?!” she exclaimed. “That’s just sad!”

  “Oh, Mila, please. It’s nothing personal. I think the history behind the dunce cap is fascinating. You’ll enjoy it, believe me.”

  Mila slumped in her chair, glowering.

  Ms. Gleason paused in front of my desk. She picked one slip, then changed her mind. She placed a different slip facedown on my desk. I turned it over: THE BASEBALL CAP!

  I smiled at Ms. Gleason. She gave me a sly wink.

  “Ms. Gleason,” I said. “You rock.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “And I roll, too.”

  Chapter

  5

  Busting the Code

  Mila and I devoured our lunches in a hurry. Then we placed the list on the table.

  Mila studied the page in silence, pulling on her long black hair. “Hmmm,” she said. “It says, ‘Key Birthdays.’ Do you think that’s a clue?”

  “Good thinking,” I agreed. “Key birthdays—like maybe the golden key.”

  Mila nodded. “It was good you pointed out November thirty-first. I wouldn’t have noticed that.”

  “What about the names?” I asked. “Don’t they seem strange to you?”

  Mila read a few of them out loud: “Imogene, Jules, Ada, Topper, Basil. I don’t know, they sound British to me. Let’s try naming some codes we already know.”

  I ticked off a bunch on my fingers … until I ran out of fingers. “There’s the Color Code, the Telephone Code, the Space C
ode, the Crease Code, the Vowel Code, the Substitution Code—”

  “Okay, okay,” Mila interrupted. “Sorry I asked. We’re going to have to take this one code at a time. Let’s start with the simplest of all, the Substitution Code.”

  In my journal, I jotted down the numbers one through twenty-six. Next to each number, starting with one, I wrote the letters A through Z. This way 1 = A, 2 = B, 3 = C, right on to 26 = Z.

  “January fifth,” I said. “That would be the letter E.”

  “What about the month?” Mila asked. “Do you think it means anything?”

  “A mystery is like a jigsaw puzzle,” I said. “You can only solve it…”

  “… one piece at a time,” Mila added, finishing my sentence. She’d heard me say it a dozen times before.

  “January twentieth would be T.”

  “March ninth is I.”

  “April third is C.”

  We continued down the list, skipping November thirty-first because there weren’t that many letters in the alphabet.

  “What does it spell?” Mila asked.

  “ETICIANTHT!”

  Yeesh.

  Back to the drawing board.

  “Hey, Jigsaw. I just noticed something,” Mila pointed out. “This list is in order by month.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe you were right. There is something funny about these names: Ada, Basil, Cynthia, Douglas, Evelyn…”

  Suddenly, I understood. A, B, C, D, E!

  Mila scribbled down the list on a fresh sheet of paper. But this time, she listed the names in alphabetical order. Now it looked like this:

  “Now try the Substitution Code again,” Mila insisted.